“Before I go on, some background on the culture of tennis: women like me—competitive, ambitious, and terrified of aging into irrelevance—love tennis.”
‘Vacation.’ Florida. His parents’ country club and a fight at the “pasta night” kiddie buffet. I sulk home with our baby in the rain, though I hadn’t wanted to stay. The minefields of abandonment have their own mysterious logic.
In the morning, I decide to repair things with manipulative retaliation. I book two spots at Live Ball, a tennis drill I’ve never heard of. We’ll get some QT and I’ll whip his ass because I play several times a week and he plays twice a year. Win, win.
Before I go on, some background on the culture of tennis: women like me—competitive, ambitious, and terrified of aging into irrelevance—love tennis. I love the way it makes my legs and lungs strong, the way it gives me a sense of potency even if the skin under my Lycra is simultaneously saggy and expanding. Because on the court, I’m seventeen again. The hours pass in an instant. The horizons of women’s USTA yawn as wide as my delusions.
We arrive. I make sure we’re paired so I can prance and preen. But Live Ball is fast and discombobulating: I play poorly; my husband, Christopher, plays extremely well. “Come over to this court,” the pro tells him between games. A cold wind blows. My un-shaven leg hairs stand straight up.
I clock his new partner. Her hair tumbles down her back long, wispy and gold. Her lacy, white skirt leaves only her upper butt to my imagination. Her outfit reminds me of baby bloomers unbuttoned. She’s the only female on a court of serious athletes: the men slide, grunt, and hit forehands so hard their arms whip over their heads. She takes advantage of those heavy balls with a perky volley that never misses. Let’s call her Lizzy.
Lizzy is a ten.
Christopher pitches forward into a jog that communicates I’m virile! I’m game! I stare, arms akimbo, mouth agape. I wasn’t a tennis player in my youth, but if I had been, I’d have worn a whole skirt. And the men (and their wives) would have looked at me, too. We’re all drawn to what’s shiny and new.
I’m partnered with Lizzy’s dad. He tells me she’s a senior in high school, debating whether or not to play in college. He’s got a giant smile and it’s clear Lizzy’s his pride and joy. The two of us keep turning back to the Olympians. Dad beams while we wait for our turn. I stalk the fence, miserly and invisible.
Looking in the bathroom mirror at Live Ball’s merciful end, I realize… invisibility would’ve been a gift. My visor gouged the middle of my forehead and the deep line casts my whole face in shadow. How could a person look so hideously drab? Is it my greasy, dark roots? Or maybe it’s my freckles, which were gamine until they merged into a few melismatic splotches. Twenty years of unprotected sunshine have left me perplexingly… gray. I didn’t realize how old I looked until I saw Lizzy, a gleaming reminder of what I once was.
We get on our bikes and start home. Christopher tells me Lizzy has “a great backhand.” I dart my shadowy eye-sockets at him, and he shuts right up.
The next day, Christopher suggests a walk on the beach. His parents graciously babysit. He holds my hand until he can’t. I wear a straw hat larger than an umbrella, which I panic-bought after tennis. The hat tries to leap off with every gust, so I walk with my hands pressed onto my head. I wear Japanese painter pants that balloon over my crotch and make my butt appear concave.
The wind means we have the beach to ourselves, though on our return, my eye zooms in on a gilded crescent. As we approach, I see Lizzy, perched on the middle rung of the empty lifeguard chair, arching her back and poking her little breasts at the sea while her mother takes pictures. She doesn’t notice us as she hops down to assess and re-direct her mother’s photography. As we pass, she climbs back up onto the chair, and her teal thong disappears into flesh no human being could ignore.
Onward we trudge.
“You know, I was thinking, the next time we come here, we should maybe get a babysitter,” Christopher says after a minute. I think to myself I so love this man; let me run a teeny tiny test.
“Oh yeah, like who?”
“I don’t know, I wonder if Lizzy would do it?”
“You think I would let that thirst trap into my house?” I snap, wrestling my sombrero against a fresh gust.
“What’s a thirst trap?” he asks. (Christopher is profoundly offline.)
“It’s exactly what it sounds like!” I huff. “She’s making one now!”
“But the neighbors love their attractive au pair. They say the kids really listen to her,” he says. Well, well, well, he sure has mapped this out.
Christopher—who’s better at marriage repair than I am—suggests we go to lunch before we leave for the airport. Once again, his parents watch the kids. Lucky us, Lizzy and her mother have gotten hungry, too. She’s put her bloomers back on and as they leave the restaurant, Lizzy walks by our table, bounce, bounce, bounce. I watch Christopher, whose raw athleticism is now directed at keeping his eyes on his plate.
Lizzy’s mom follows and I see the woman, somehow, for the first time.
She’s got the same color hair as Lizzy, but it’s shoulder-length, with no more shine. Her face is craggy and tan. I hadn’t looked at her before, because evolution designed my eyes to go straight to her daughter, but I see now—she’s beautiful. Not in a way that strives or competes, her skin isn’t frozen or filled. She wears comfortable, attractive clothes. She’s in a different era of womanhood, and she’s not pretending otherwise. Lizzy is beautiful; her mother is dignified.
I grow up in about ten seconds, realizing the permission this woman has given me. It’s okay that my face has creases and sunspots. It’s okay that my gaze—like everyone’s—goes to what’s glossy and pert. It’s how we’re made. I want to have the confidence to celebrate a younger woman’s beauty—I can feel threatened, or I can feel generous and delighted. There’s only one type of woman I want to age into (though I’ll always find the bikini selfie lamely transparent).
How lucky am I to have been like Lizzy once? As lucky as her mother, I’m sure. And Lizzy, if she’s as blessed as the two of us, will someday reach the age of very loose pants.
And when that day dawns… she can babysit.
Isabel Cowles Murphy is a former Brooklyn prosecutor turned literary novelist. Her work has appeared in Elle, In Style, and the Huffington Post. She writes weekly The Noble Try on Substack.
